Part 18 (1/2)
The hitherto moderated grief of the wife arose to a pitch much wilder than the death of her husband could, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, occasion. To die without absolution--to pa.s.s away into eternity ”unanointed, unaneled”--without being purified from the inherent stains of humanity--was to her a much deeper affliction than her final separation from him. She cried in tones of the most piercing despair, and clapped her hands, as they do who weep over the dead. Had he died in the calm confidence of having received the Viatic.u.m, or Sacrament before death, his decease would have had nothing remarkably calamitous in it, beyond usual occurrences of a similar nature. Now the grief was intensely bitter in consequence of his expected departure without the priest. His sons and daughters felt it as forcibly as his wife; their lamentations were full of the strongest and sharpest agony.
For nearly three hours did they remain in this situation; poor Lanigan sinking by degrees into that collapsed state from which there is no possibility of rallying. He was merely able to speak; and recognize his family; but every moment advanced him, with awful certainty, nearer and nearer to his end..
A great number of the neighbors were now a.s.sembled, all partic.i.p.ating in the awful feeling which predominated, and anxious to compensate by their prayers for the absence of that confidence derived by Roman Catholics during the approach of death, from the spiritual aid of the priest.
They were all at prayer; the sick-room and kitchen were crowded with his friends and acquaintances, many of whom knelt out before the door, and joined with loud voices in the Rosary which was offered up in his behalf.
In this crisis were they, when a horseman, dressed in black, approached the house. Every head was instantly turned round, with a hope that it might be the parish priest or his curate; but, alas! they were doomed to experience a fresh disappointment. The stranger, though clerical enough in his appearance, presented a countenance with which none of them was acquainted. On glancing at the group who knelt around the door, he appeared to understand the melancholy cause which brought them together.
”How is this?” he exclaimed. ”Is there any one here sick or dying?”
”Poor Misther Lanigan, sir, is jist departing glory be to G.o.d! An'
what is terrible all out upon himself and family, he's dyin' widout the priest. They're both at Conwhirence, sir, and can't come--Mr. Dogherty an' his curate.”
”Make way!” said the stranger, throwing himself off his horse, and pa.s.sing quickly through the people. ”Show me to the sick man's room--be quick, my friends--I am a Catholic clergyman.”
In a moment a pa.s.sage was cleared, and the stranger found himself beside the bed of death. Grief in the room was loud and bitter; but his presence stilled it despite of what they felt.
”My dear friends,” said he, ”you know there should be silence in the apartment of a dying man. For shame!--for shame! Cease this clamor, it will but distract him for whom you weep, and prevent him from composing his mind for the great trial that is before him.”
”Sir,” said Lanigan's wife, seizing his hand in both hers, and looking distractedly in his face, ”are you a priest? For heaven's sake tell us?”
”I am,” he replied; ”leave the room every one of you. I hope your husband is not speechless?”
”Sweet Queen of Heaven, not yet, may her name be praised! but near it, your Reverence--widin little or no time of it.”.
Whilst they spoke, he was engaged in putting the stole about his neck, after which he cleared the room, and commenced hearing Lanigan's confession.
The appearance of a priest, and the consolation it produced, rallied the powers of life in the benevolent farmer. He became more collected; made a clear and satisfactory confession; received the sacrament of Extreme Unction; and felt himself able to speak with tolerable distinctness and precision. The effects of all this were astonis.h.i.+ng. A placid serenity, full of hope and confidence, beamed from the pale and worn features of him who was but a few minutes before in a state of terror altogether indescribable. When his wife and family, after having been called in, observed this change, they immediately partic.i.p.ated in his tranquillity.
Death had been deprived of its sting, and grief of its bitterness; their sorrow was still deep, but it was not darkened by the dread of future misery. They felt for him as a beloved father, a kind husband, and a clear friend, who had lived a virtuous life, feared G.o.d, and was now about to pa.s.s into happiness.
When the rites of the church were administered, and the family again a.s.sembled round the bed, the priest sat down in a position which enabled him to see the features of this good man more distinctly.
”I would be glad,” said Lanigan, ”to know who it is that G.o.d in his goodness has sent to smooth my bed in death, if it 'ud be plasin', sir, to you to tell me?”
”Do you remember,” replied the priest, ”a young lad whom you met some years ago on his way to Munster, as a poor scholar! You and your family were particularly kind to him; so kind that he has never since forgotten your affectionate hospitality.”
”We do, your Reverence, we do. A mild, gentle crathur he was, poor boy.
I hope G.o.d prospered him.”
”You see him now before you,” said the priest. ”I am that boy, and I thank G.o.d that I can testify, however slightly, my deep sense of the virtues which you exercised towards me; although I regret that the occasion is one of such affliction.”
The farmer raised his eyes and feeble hands towards heaven. ”Praise an'
glory to your name, good G.o.d!” he exclaimed. ”Praise an' glory to your holy name! Now I know that I'm not forgotten, when you brought back the little kindness I did that boy for your sake, wid so many blessins to me in the hour of my affliction an' sufferin'! Childher remimber this, now that I'm goin' to lave yez for ever! Remimber always to help the stranger, an' thim that's poor an' in sorrow. If you do, G.o.d won't forget it to you; but will bring it back to yez when you stand in need of it, as he done to me this day. You see, childhre dear, how small thrifles o' that kind depend on one another. If I hadn't thought of helpin' his Reverence here when he was young and away from his own, he wouldn't think of callin' upon us this day as he was pa.s.sin'. You see the hand of G.o.d is in it, childhre: which it is, indeed, in every thing that pa.s.ses about us, if we could only see it as we ought to do. Thin, but I'd like to look upon your face, sir, if it's plasin' to you? A little more to the light, sir. There, I now see you. Ay, indeed, it's changed for the betther it is--: the same mild, clear countenance, but not sorrowful, as when I seen it last. Suffer me to put my hand on your head, sir; I'd like to bless you before I die, for I can't forget what you undertook to do for your parents.”
The priest sat near him; but finding he was scarcely able to raise his hand to his head, he knelt down, and the farmer, before he communicated the blessing inquired--
”Musha, sir, may I ax, wor you able to do anything to help your family as you expected?”
”G.o.d,” said the priest, ”made me the instrument of raising them from their poverty; they are now comfortable and happy.”